1974 - So What Happens to Me (14 page)

On the night of September 23rd, I suggested we two might go out and have a farewell dinner together.

“I could cook you something Jack,” he said, “but if you want to go out. . .”

“Don’t you? I bet you haven’t been to a restaurant since Mum died.”

“That’s true. Well, it will make a change. Yes, let’s do that.”

We went to the best restaurant in town: nothing special, but decent enough. The restaurant was fairly full and everyone there seemed to know my old man. It was quite a procession to our table. He had to stop and shake hands, introduce me before he moved onto the next table. All small time people and they bored me rigid, but I was as pleasant as I could be.

“You’re quite a personality here. Dad,” I said as we finally settled at our table. “I had no idea you were so popular.”

He smiled happily.

“Well, son, you don’t work in a town for forty-five years without making friends.”

“I guess that’s right.”

The Maître d’ came over and shook hands. He was a tired, fat looking little man and his tuxedo was shiny and worn, but he treated my old man as if he were the President and I dug for that.

“What would you like Dad?” I asked. “No . . . not steak!”

He laughed. He looked really happy. His reception had done him a load of good.

“Well. . .”

“Let’s have oysters and the game pie.”

His eyes lit up.

“Well. . . the oysters come high Jack.”

We had the oysters with champagne and the game pie with a decent claret. After the food I had eaten in Paradise City, this was pretty poor fare, but my old man really enjoyed it.

After the meal, a couple of old guys, fat, faded and pompous, came over and joined us. One of them was the Mayor, the other the Commissioner of Parks. My old man had a real ball. I went along, thinking of tomorrow.

When we got home, my old man said, “Well, Jack, that was the nicest evening I’ve had since Mum passed away. We two could have a good time together if you took over Johnson’s garage.”

“Not yet, dad.” I said, “but maybe some time,” and I felt like a heel.

***

I picked up Bernie’s Buick at the Paradise City airport and drove along the highway.

I thought of my old man, working at this small time bank, aged sixty-nine, and how he would react when he learned that I had died in an air crash. I thought too of the fact that I was now on Essex’s payroll at thirty thousand dollars a year and could earn more. Maybe I was nuts to go ahead with this hijacking.

Why couldn’t I accept the job Essex had given me and not take the risk of stealing this kite? Then I thought of what a million and a quarter dollars meant. I could never hope to make a sum like that even if I remained in the Essex set-up until I was retired.

One thing I was sure of: once I got paid my cut, I would leave Bernie. I had no faith in the Blue Ribbon Air Taxi Service Corp.

I would take my money and go to Europe. Just where I would settle I had no idea, but I would settle somewhere and with all that money, well invested. I could lead a life that had to have interests.

I reached the secluded cabin around midday. I wondered if Mrs. Essex was waiting for me. Mrs. Essex? I found it hard to think of her as Victoria . . . even Vicky. There was something about her that didn’t encourage familiarity even though I had slapped her behind and had screwed her. She was a very special woman.

I pulled up outside the cabin. As I got out of the car, the cabin door opened and the negro groom came out, smiling.

The sight of him really shook me. I stared at him as he came towards me. He was lean, tall with a flat nose, sparkling black eyes and he had on a white coat, green slacks and his splayed feet were in green sandals.

“Hello there, Mr. Crane,” he said.

“Hi!”

What the hell is this? I was thinking.

“Mrs. Essex won’t be here until after lunch, Mr. Crane.”

“Oh . . . well. . .” I was floundering.

“I’ll get your bag.” He paused and smiled at me “I’m Sam Washington Jones. You call me Sam: okay?”

“Sure.”

He opened the trunk and took out my bag.

“I’ll show you to your room, Mr. Crane.”

He led the way into the cabin, paused at the door, nodded at it, said, “That’s Mrs. Essex’s bedroom.” He moved along the passage and opened a door. “This is your room, Mr. Crane.”

“Thanks.”

“May I unpack your bag, Mr. Crane?”

“I can do it.”

He put my bag by the bed.

“Lunch in half an hour. May I get you a drink, Mr. Crane?”

“A whisky on the rocks, please.”

I stood for a minute or so. Then I told myself she would have to have someone to take care of her. A woman like her wouldn’t be able to cook, look after the cabin, make the beds. I wondered how she had corrupted this nice looking negro.

I unpacked, put my things in the closet, washed up in the bathroom and then went into the lounge. A double whisky on the rocks stood on an occasional table. I sat down, drank, lit a cigarette and waited.

Sam came in after twenty minutes.

“You ready to eat. Mr. Crane?”

“I’m always ready to eat.”

He grinned and went away. A few minutes later, he came in wheeling a trolley. As a starter I had ten king sized prawns. The main dish was kebab served with a curry sauce. There was coffee and brandy to finish.

“You’re some cook Sam,” I said.

“Yes, Mr. Crane, Missy likes good food.”

I sat there, smoking and relaxing, then around 15.00 I heard the sound of an approaching car. I got up and went out into the open.

Mrs. Essex came belting up the drive in a Porsche and she waved to me as she nailed the car a few feet from me.

“Hi! Jack!” She got out of the car.

God! She looked marvellous. She was wearing a jazzy shirt, like a Picasso painting and white slacks that looked painted on wet.

“You look terrific,” I said.

She gave me an up from under look and smiled.

“You think so?”

She came to me and linked her arm around mine.

“Did Sam take care of you?”

“Sure. He’s a marvellous cook.”

We walked into the cabin and she moved away from me and dropped into a lounging chair.

“Surprised?” She smiled up at me.

“You say that again!”

“Pleased?”

“That’s to put it mildly.”

She laughed. God! She was a gorgeous looking woman!

“Right now I am spending five days with my sister in New York,” she told me. “She has the same problem as I have so we cooperate. I lie for her and she lies for me.” Again she laughed. “Lane is far too busy to take care of me.” She looked up at me, her eyes sparkling. “You will, won’t you?”

I held out my hand.

“Why wait?” I said.

The next five days slipped away, following a pattern. We slept together, made love, got up around 10.00, had breakfast served by Sam, then rode in the forest. She was marvellous on a horse. I kept looking at her as she rode. Then we came back to the cabin and Sam served us a meal. We went to bed after the meal and she was always wildly excited when I covered her.

Then we took a long walk with the sun shining on us, through the forest, holding hands. She didn’t talk much. She just seemed to want me by her, holding her hand and wandering. Then when the sun set we returned to the cabin and closed the shutters. We had drinks and watched telly, then Sam brought in a light supper, but Sam’s light suppers were extra special: a lobster soufflé, trout with almonds, an egg salad with smoked salmon and so on. Neither of us attempted to talk as ordinary people will talk. This was a sexual thing. She wanted me as if I were a stallion: personal feelings didn’t exist. The surroundings were wonderful. Sam’s food was wonderful and she was wonderful.

On out last night, when I knew Bernie, the following day, would fly in the new kite, we had a special dinner. We started with quails, then a pheasant with all the trimmings, washed down with a Latcur 1959.

“I now go back to Lane,” she said as we sniffed brandies.

She smiled at me. “Was it good?”

“For me . . . marvellous, the best. And you?”

“Mmmm!”

She got up and I watched her walk around the big lounge, watching the slow sensual move of her firm buttocks and the way she lifted her breasts.

“You’re a better lover than Lane.”

“Is that right?” I stared at her. “Only because I have time to make love to you and he hasn’t.”

“A woman needs love. When she is unfortunate enough to get hooked up with a man who can only think of making money. . .” She shrugged. “Money and business: a woman needs taking care of. . .”

Sam came in to offer more coffee.

As he poured, he said. “Should I pack your bag, Mrs. Essex?”

“Please.”

So this was the end of an experience. This woman who had given herself so freely to me seemed to me like my old man.

She and he from tomorrow wouldn’t exist for me. By tomorrow I would be in the Condor and I would be dead to the world. I would never see my old man again, but this I had come to accept.

He had had his life, but it hurt that I would no longer see this woman again as she sat by my side, those marvellous violet eyes dwelling on my face.

When Sam had gone, she said. “I have had a lot of men Jack. A woman needs a man and Lane—I’ve said this before—is too busy to bother with me and also too tired. You wouldn’t know how frustrating it is for someone like me to wait around for her man to return and then to find he’s too tired. Men only think of themselves. He imagines I can just sit around and wait for him to get in the mood.” She patted my hand. “This is our last safe night together Jack but if we are careful, there could be other nights.” She got to her feet. “Let’s go to bed.”

The following morning I watched her take of in the Porsche.

She waved once, then was gone.

Sam came out into the sunshine.

“Your bag’s packed, Mr. Crane.”

I offered him a twenty-dollar bill

“Not for me,” he said, smiling. “This has been my pleasure.”

So I left him and drove back to the airfield.

Around 15.00, the new Condor settled on the runway. I drove out in a jeep and arrived as Bernie and Erskine came down onto the tarmac.

“Some kite.” I said as I joined them.

“You don’t know the half of it. It’s a real beauty.” Bernie said.

“No problems?”

“Not a thing: she flies like a bird.”

We looked at each other.

“When is the night test to be?”

“I thought Saturday.”

That gave us three clear days.

“You’re sure there are no problems?”

“Not a thing,” Erskine joined in. “She’s marvellous.”

“Take a look Jack,” Bernie said. “I’ve got paperwork to do and then I’ve got to phone Mr. Essex. Harry will show you around.”

He got in one of the waiting jeeps and drove off.

Harry and I climbed into the kite. It had everything a top executive could wish for. There were six cabins, beautifully fitted out as sleeping quarters. Essex’s private suite was really something in luxury. There was a narrow long conference room that could sit ten people: a small secretary’s office equipped down to an I.B.M. Executive, a bar: a small beautifully equipped kitchen and at the far end were two less well equipped cabins for the staff.

“It seems to have everything but a swimming pool.” I said after the tour. “A shame, isn’t it, that this greaser will tear out all the luxury and fill the kite with Cubans and arms.”

Harry shrugged.

“That’s the way the cookie crumbles. I couldn’t care less so long as I get money.”

“So Saturday night?”

He nodded.

“How do you feel about it, Harry? About being dead? About never coming back to the U.S. of A.”

“Yeah: it’s a tough decision, but there’s no way else I could make this kind of money.”

“Are you going in with Bernie and his taxi service?”

He shook his head.

“Not me. I’ve no faith in it. I’ll take my cut and blow. How’s about you?”

“The same. Any ideas where you’ll go?”

“Rio. I’ve connections there. And you?”

“Maybe Europe. The first thing is to get the money.”

“Think there’ll be trouble about that?”

“Not the way I’ve fixed it.” I went on to tell him about setting up the company, about my talk with Kendrick. “It should be okay.”

We got in the jeep and headed for the control tower. While we were drinking beer, Bernie joined us. He said he had talked to Mr. Essex in Paris and told him he would night test the plane on Saturday night.

“I’d better go see Kendrick.” I said. “If the operation is for Saturday night. I want that bank receipt. And Bernie, get the guns on board and ammo. We each have a machine pistol. What else can you dig up?”

Bernie looked at Harry.

“You know the armoury.”

“We’ve got three Jap Armalites: that’s really a weapon and there are around four Chicago Pianos.”

“Let’s have one of each. How about grenades?”

“Can do.”

“Say six.”

They both stared at me.

“Are you really expecting trouble Jack?” Bernie asked, sweat showing on his forehead.

“I want to be sure we can stop trouble.”

“Well. . .”

“Get those weapons on board.” I got to my feet “I’ll go talk to Kendrick. Suppose we have dinner together and tie this all up?”

“Sure,” Bernie said. “We meet at my cabin. I’ll order a meal.”

“Around 20.30?”

“Okay.”

I took Bernie’s Buick and drove into Paradise City. Three hours later, I knocked on Bernie’s cabin door and he opened up.

Harry was drinking Scotch and he got up to make me a drink.

“How did you get on?” Bernie asked. He looked worried and there were smudges under his eyes.

I sat down, took the drink Harry offered me.”

“Friday we get the bank receipt. I told that fat queer the kite doesn’t move until I get it,” I grinned at Bernie. “Relax. It’s okay. This is going to work.”

But how was I to know the one thing none of us even thought of would occur? It looked fine to me. I had taken a lot of trouble to make it look fine, but there is always something, repeat something, that none of us could have imagined.